oney bet on the result. Pablo knew
better than to take Father Dominic into his confidence when the latter
joined them at the Mission, but by the time they had reached El Toro,
he had solved the riddle. He changed one of his hundred dollar bills,
made up a little roll of ten two-dollar bills and slipped it in the
pocket of the brown habit where he knew Brother Anthony kept his
cigarette papers and tobacco.

At Ventura, when they stopped at a garage to take on oil and gasoline,
Brother Anthony showed Pablo the roll of bills, amounting to twenty
dollars, and ascribed his possession of them to nothing more nor less
than a divine miracle. Pablo agreed with him. He also noticed that
for reasons best known to himself, Brother Anthony made no mention of
this miracle to his superior, Father Dominic.

At about two o'clock on Thanksgiving Day the pilgrims from the San
Gregorio sputtered up to the entrance of the Lower California Jockey
Club at Tia Juana, parked, and approached the entrance. They were
hesitant, awed by the scenes around them. Father Dominic's rusty brown
habit and his shovel hat constituted a novel sight in these worldly
precincts, and the old Fedora hat worn by Brother Anthony was the
subject of many a sly nudge and smile. Pablo and Carolina, being
typical of the country, passed unnoticed.

Father Dominic had approached the gateman and in his gentle old voice
had inquired the price of admittance. It was two dollars and fifty
cents! Scandalous! He was about to beat the gatekeeper down; surely
the management had special rates for prelates--

A hand fell on his shoulder and Don Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriaga
Farrel was gazing down at him with beaming eyes.

"Perhaps, Father Dominic," he suggested in Spanish and employing the
old-fashioned courtly tone of the _haciendado_, "you will permit me the
great honor of entertaining you." And he dropped a ten-dollar bill in
the cash box and ushered the four _San Gregorianos_ through the
turn-stile.

"My son, my son," murmured Father Dominic. "What means this
unaccustomed dress? One would think you dwelt in the City of Mexico.
You are unshaven--you resemble a loafer in _cantinas_. That _sombrero_
is, perhaps, fit for a bandit like Pancho Villa, but, my son, you are
an American gentleman. Your beloved grandfather and your equally
beloved father never assumed the dress of our people--"

"Hush! I'm a wild and woolly Mexican sport for a day, padre. Say